back, that was what Taylor wanted.
She smiled at the memory, said, “Mmm, Mmm,” twice more for good measure, then took a deep breath and entered the house. The downstairs was deserted. Baldwin must still be up in his office.
The answering machine was blinking, so she grabbed the notepad they kept next to the phone and hit Play.
Three messages.
The first was from a reporter at Channel Four, after her for a comprehensive sit-down exclusive interview.
She deleted it before the girl stopped talking. No way, no how, was she going to do that.
The second was Dr. Benedict’s office, needing some arcane insurance detail. She wrote down the information and deleted the message.
The last one shook her.
A voice at once familiar and alien emanated from the speaker.
“Um, hi, Taylor. This is your dad. Listen, um, I’m getting out today. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. It’s early. Good behavior. This place has been getting crowded, so they sprang a few of us that weren’t considered a ‘threat to society.’ I’m heading down to Nashville and I thought that we could, I don’t know, talk. I’ll be at the house. Call me.”
He rattled off a number and the machine went dead.
Taylor stood frozen, staring at the phone as if it had sprouted a mouth and started talking. Win. Winthrop Thomas Stewart Jackson IV. Her illustrious father, getting out of the federal penitentiary early for good behavior? Son of a bitch. Really, this day was just getting better and better.
Barely able to contain her annoyance, Taylor wrote a note about her dad’s release and mounted the stairs. Baldwin was sitting at his desk, fingers flying over the keyboard. The widescreen monitor was on. She got a quick glance of what looked like a sumptuous office before Baldwin realized she was there and hit the screen saver. More secrets. She almost turned around, but she honestly couldn’t face the idea of her father alone.
“What’s up?” Baldwin asked, leaning back in his chair, all nonchalance.
She thrust the note at him. Baldwin read it, then simply stared at Taylor with his mouth open for half a second. Shaking his head, he pushed back from the desk.
“Wine. Food. Let’s go make dinner. The rest comes later.”
That sounded good to her.
Silent steps down into the kitchen. Baldwin disappeared into the basement for a few moments then returned with two bottles of wine.
“Zinfandel or Nero d’Avola?” he asked. She raised two fingers.
“Nero it is.” He popped the cork on the wine, inserted the aerator, poured them each a glass. She took a sip. The wine was rich and thick, and she felt herself relax a bit. She took her Ativan, let Baldwin see her do it. She was going to be a good little girl. She also snuck another Percocet, just a little something to keep the edge of the headache at bay for a while. Maybe she’d actually be able to talk tonight. She kept hoping that her voice would suddenly start working.
Carbonara was on the menu for the evening, and Taylor sautéed pancetta while Baldwin got the pasta boiling and whisked the eggs and cheese together. She adored the dish. Really—how could you go wrong with Italian bacon and eggs?
The meal was ready in ten minutes and they sat together at the table, grinding pepper, sipping wine, both trapped in their own thoughts. Between the salt, the wine and the drugs, the thoughts of her happy place, Taylor felt her throat relax. She recognized this sensation. It generally preceded her actually speaking a few words aloud.
“My dad,” she managed to get out before everything tightened up again.
Shit.
“Hey—that was great.” Baldwin said. “I can only imagine what you must be feeling right now. I can make some calls, but it sounds like he’s already been released. Do you want to see him?”
Taylor had thought about that while she cooked. She shook her head, mouthed no.
“Okay. Listen, Atlantic called. I have to handle a case for him. It might mean some travel, and you know how
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